


More to Love

by MsThunderFrost



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Biting, Coitus Interruptus, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Insecure Jaskier | Dandelion, Insecurity, Jaskier | Dandelion Being an Idiot, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Needs a Hug, M/M, Mild Pain Kink, Misunderstandings, Weight Gain, Weight Issues, patience is a virtue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 08:22:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22344532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsThunderFrost/pseuds/MsThunderFrost
Summary: They stand there for some time, holding eye-contact that begins to border on awkward. Finally, Jaskier relents, “I’m terrified that, once you have my clothes off, you’ll be disappointed by what’s underneath. A pretty face can only make up for so much, you know.” He laughs, but it sounds hollow even to his own ears. “Gods, am I being a buzzkill right now…”AKAJaskier has put on... more than a few extra pounds, and is reluctant to let Geralt see his belly. Geralt is... well,Geralt.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 18
Kudos: 834
Collections: Good Relationship Etiquette (familial included) - or Good BDSM Etiquette - or Good Relationship and BDSM Etiquette





	More to Love

“W-Wait, don’t —!” Geralt stills, his massive hands curled about Jaskier’s lithe hips, his calloused thumbs tracing lazy circles along the gold-embroidered hem of his doublet… and waits. 

Jaskier’s not going to start crying. He’s  _ not _ . But then he looks down at Geralt, looking so stupidly  _ perfect _ as he radiates need and arousal and  _ patience _ , and the first traitorous tear spills down his cheek. It’s soon followed by another, and another, until he’s damn near  _ sobbing _ , and it’s annoying and embarrassing and decidedly  _ not _ how he’d intended this night to go. He doesn’t want to admit that the waterworks have been a long time coming, likely since the first time that he and Geralt had tried—and failed, miserably—to fuck. The world would be fucking  _ butterflies _ and  _ rainbows _ up until that moment that Geralt made to divest him of his doublet, and then his blood would turn to ice in his veins, his tongue swollen and clumsy in his mouth as he tried to communicate that he wanted, needed Geralt to  _ stop _ . And the Witcher always did.

It’s not that he  _ doesn’t _ want to have sex with Geralt. One would think that the number of odes he’d written to the Witcher’s shapely arse would be a testament to that fact. It’s just… Geralt is  _ so beautiful _ . And fuck if ninety-nine percent of the time that doesn’t bother him in a very  _ different _ way. But the second those big, calloused hands move to take off his clothes, he’s reminded that, where the Witcher is all sharp angles and firm muscles and (relatively) smooth, sun-kissed flesh… Jaskier is, well… He’s certainly not as thin as a casual, side-glance would lead one to believe. He has a  _ bit _ of a paunch, which, amazingly, has done nothing but  _ grow _ since he’d begun traveling with Geralt. For all the coin that they  _ don’t _ have, the Witcher certainly has his ways to ensure that they don’t go hungry. And he’s more than willing to forgo his own meal if it means Jaskier’s belly is full. 

The weight is not…  _ considerable _ , and it is easy enough to cover with a slightly less form-fitting doublet, but it makes him feel unattractive and it’s not something he’s particularly anxious to show his Witcher. He knows that it’s something they really ought to talk about, but he finds himself at a loss for how to convey to someone so utterly and unjustly  _ perfect _ that he’s… well,  _ not _ . And so the silence stretches on as Geralt studies his bard’s face and Jaskier does everything within his power to avoid his Witcher’s eyes. Finally, Geralt releases his hold on Jaskier’s hips, reaching up to wipe the tears from his swollen blue eyes, and presses a kiss to the bard’s temple before he leaves to relieve himself in the small washroom that adjoins their room for the night.

Jaskier remains, sniveling, by their bedroll, ears distinctly attuned to the soft slap of flesh upon flesh as the Witcher takes himself in hand, and decides that it’s now or never. He squeezes his eyes shut and says, “I’m fat.” His voice is not particularly loud, but he knows the Witcher, with his ridiculously sensitive hearing, will be able to hear it just fine.

The movement stops, and though it takes a minute Jaskier can hear the soft shuffle of footsteps approaching from behind, “ _ What _ ?” He tries and fails to convince himself that that  _ isn’t  _ irritation bleeding into Geralt’s tone.

“I’ve… gained a fair bit of weight since I first began traveling with you. I have a godsdamned  _ paunch _ , and no matter how hard I try it only seems to get bigger and I…” he turns to face the Witcher, choking a bit when he realizes the elder hadn’t even bothered to tuck himself back into his slacks  _ holy mother of the gods _ .

“You’re not fat.” Geralt says, his tone brokering no room for argument. 

Jaskier scoffs, “You haven’t seen—,”

“I don’t need to.” He cuts him off. “Although I find your appearance to be… aesthetically pleasing, it’s not the reason that I continue to desire to bed you after being turned down seventeen times.” Jaskier flinches—they couldn’t possibly have done this  _ seventeen _ times… could they? 

“...Are you trying to say that I won you over with my razor-sharp wit and boundless charisma?” He tries for a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Geralt rolls his.

“Something like that.”

They stand there for some time, holding eye-contact that begins to border on awkward. Finally, Jaskier relents, “I’m terrified that, once you have my clothes off, you’ll be disappointed by what’s underneath. A pretty face can only make up for so much, you know.” He laughs, but it sounds hollow even to his own ears. “Gods, am I being a buzzkill right now…” 

Geralt’s hand curls around Jaskier’s chin as he repeats, “You’re not fat.” Before the bard can respond, he continues, “And even if you  _ were _ , I’d still want to fuck you hard enough to make you bitch for  _ days _ .” He licks his lips, “...Will you let me show you?”

Jaskier blinks, momentarily too stunned to formulate proper words. And then he nods, “...P-Please?”

The Witcher needs no further encouragement. Capturing the bard’s lips in a surprisingly gentle kiss, he allows his hands to roam freely over cloth-covered skin. Talented fingers glide over twin peaks, short, blunt nails teasing the bard’s dusky nipples ever so softly. As his hands slide lower, he feels the solid curve of the bard’s ribcage, and the subtle swell of the belly that’s distressing him so. He feels the bard’s breath hitch and he does not linger, choosing instead to trail love-bites down the soft curve of the bard’s chin and along the elegant curve of his neck, the bruises growing darker as they grew easier to hide. When his hands reach the finely-embroidered hem of Jaskier’s doublet, amber eyes flicker up to meet chaotic oceans of blue for one final affirmation of consent. Jaskier squeezes his eyes shut and offers a brisk nod, waiting for the inevitable fall-out—

The doublet comes up and off in one smooth motion, so fast that Jaskier doesn’t even have time to work himself into a proper tizzy over it. Geralt slowly lowers himself into a squat, his amber eyes never leaving Jaskier’s face as he smooths one hand over the dreaded paunch. While his stomach is decidedly not  _ flat _ , it is certainly not as large as Jaskier purported it to be—and even if it  _ were _ , Geralt wouldn’t mind it. He closes his hand around it and gives it a tentative squeeze, the soft flesh melting between his fingers like dough, and Jaskier makes a pathetic sound somewhere between a whimper and a moan. It’s when the Witcher takes a handful of flesh and chomps down on it hard enough to leave a reddish-purple imprint on Jaskier’s beautifully pale skin that tentative fingers find their way into Geralt’s hair, tangling in the wild silver-white locks and tugging ever so slightly…

“Fuck,” Jaskier is straining in his leggings, and it takes a tremendous amount of willpower to tear himself away from that gorgeous stomach long enough to strip him of his remaining clothing.

“G-Geralt,” the bard whines as Geralt’s fingers curl around his shaft and offer it a lazy tug, “Y-You— _ hah _ , shit that shouldn’t be so hot— _ fuck _ , I know you c-can bite me harder than that…”

Geralt drags his tongue over a fresh bruise, loving the lust-drunk moans that spill from Jaskier’s mouth as he begins to lean more heavily on the Witcher in order to remain standing. “I should’ve known that you’d like pain.”

“O-Only from you.” The reassurance is quick to leave his mouth, and when his brain catches up a second later, he flushes bright scarlet and murmurs, “T-That is to say, um…”

The Witcher hums, clamping his teeth down on the soft flesh of Jaskier’s belly button and tugging ever so slightly. The bard bucks into his hand, a string of barely coherent praises falling from his lips, “I’ll only ever hurt you in ways that you’ll like.” The solemn declaration pulls another moan from Jaskier.

His teeth leave cherry-red marks on Jaskier’s powder-pale skin, leaving a reminder of his affection for Jaskier to touch and trace and  _ feel _ when those ugly insecurities come bubbling back to the surface. Geralt does not mince words—he speaks his mind clearly and concisely, rarely giving voice to his thoughts without first taking ample time to mull them over and ensure that they will come across as he intends. But even then… there’s no helping those that are simply too caught up in their own needs and desires to truly take the time to  _ listen _ to what he has to say. Jaskier could admit that there were a handful of times that he’d failed to really  _ listen _ to what Geralt was trying to tell him. But this… this was  _ another _ form of communication, which rang loud and clear and true in Jaskier’s pleasure-hazed mind. Geralt still wanted to claim him, to leave his mark on him _ , in  _ him…

Geralt lowers him down onto the bedroll, sliding in-between his spread legs and continuing to lavish the underside of his belly with small nips. After a moment of basking in the salty-sweet taste of Jaskier’s skin and the feet of short, blunt nails scraping across his scalp, he draws back just far enough to murmur, “Do you have oil?”

“Oil?” Geralt’s nonplussed expression snaps him into high gear, “Oil! R-Right. There should be some… some in the bag, there.” He mourns the loss of Geralt’s heat as the Witcher moves to retrieve the oil, but soon enough that glorious, ridiculously  _ perfect _ frame is situated between his legs once more, the fingers on his right hand glistening with sweetly-scented oil.

There’s a slight burn along the insides of his thighs as Geralt spreads his legs wider, and his breath hitches as the Witcher’s pointer finger prods tentatively at his entrance. “Relax.”

“Working on it.” He takes a deep, shaky breath and wills himself to relax, focusing on the sharp curve of Geralt’s jaw and the molten amber of his eyes and the absolutely endearing way that his hair has been thoroughly disheveled by Jaskier’s fingers. And then Geralt’s finger is inside of him and  _ shit _ …

Each slow, lazy pump of Geralt’s finger is accentuated by the lewd squelch of oil and  _ fuck _ if just that single finger doesn’t feel better than all of his wildest imaginings. He works bruises into the sharp lines of his hips, his free hand curling over the swell of Jaskier’s belly to press down on the bruises  _ just so _ … His cock twitches, the flared head wet and leaking on his belly, as Geralt works a second finger inside and begins to scissor him open. He feels the stretch for less than a second, as Geralt’s teeth graze over the thick, pulsing swell of his cock and it takes everything in him not to spill then and there. Those sinfully plump lips trace over his aching arousal, his hot, moist breath sending shivers down Jaskier’s spine. When he opens those lips and drags the swollen head of the bard’s cock between them, that glorious tongue gliding over his leaking slit, he tosses his head back and succumbs to the pleasure and completely fails to notice the third finger that finds its way inside him…

“Mmph,  _ Geralt _ ,” Jaskier moans, tugging sharply on the Witcher’s hair in an attempt to redirect his attention. “M-Much as I…  _ appreciate _ t-the attention, I fear the evening may end  _ prematurely _ —,”

Geralt offers one last, firm  _ suck _ before pulling off of his cock with a resounding  _ pop _ . “Are you ready?”

Jaskier swallows hard and nods. “Y-Yes. You promised to show me how much you desire me, yes?”

“Hmm,” the Witcher’s fingers slip from his channel, but before he has a chance to truly mourn their loss, they are replaced by something decidedly longer and  _ thicker _ . “ _ Fuck _ …” Jaskier’s retort that that should be his line dies on his tongue as inch after blessed inch of cock fills him, Geralt’s hands pressing into his hips and holding him steady as he fills him so completely…

Geralt’s pace is far from gentle. He ruts into Jaskier with a furious abandon that has the bard’s mind buzzing with all the unflattering ways his excess flesh is bouncing. The thoughts scatter, however, when he actually takes his own advice and listens to the filth spewing forth from Geralt’s mouth. Even in the throes of passion, each sentence, each phrase, hells, even each  _ word _ , is so carefully thought out… and hand-tailored to his pleasure. There’s something absolutely sinful about such  _ filth _ falling from an angel’s lips and fuck if it isn’t the most arousing thing that Jaskier has ever heard in his life. He’s never felt so loved, so  _ desired _ , and finds that he only regrets waiting so long to really  _ listen _ to what it was that Geralt had been trying to tell him each time that he pushed his Witcher away. He curls his fingers in silver-white hair and drags Geralt’s face upward until their eyes meet, spreading his legs that much wider as pleas for  _ more… harder… faster _ … spill from his kiss-swollen lips.

His orgasm comes as a surprise, tearing through him with such violent intensity that he actually blacks out for a second, or twelve. Geralt fucks him through his orgasm, the Witcher’s breath coming in short, hard pants as he chases his pleasure. It’s just as the pleasure begins to teeter on the brink of pain, his body far too sensitive from his recent orgasm to handle such rough stimulation, when Geralt’s hips stutter and he spills, filling Jaskier to the brink with thick ropes of hot seed. He remains there for a moment, struggling to regain his bearings (and breath), before gently pulling out—and doing his very best to hide the smirk of satisfaction that threatens to bloom when Jaskier moans at the loss, his stretched pucker winking as thick globs of hot semen slowly ooze from his channel—and flopping down to lay on his side. He’s tracing the cacophony of bruises on Jaskier’s belly when the bard comes out with:

“I must say, you were… most convincing.” He places his hand atop Geralt’s, “I’m sorry I let something so foolish stop—,”

Geralt cuts him off with a soft peck to the corner of his mouth, “If it bothers you, it isn’t foolish.” And then, “However… feel free to come to me should you find yourself in need of further…  _ convincing. _ ” His amber eyes skirt hungrily over Jaskier’s nude frame, and a curl of pleasure works its way down the bard’s spine. 

He’s more than a bit surprised when the bard ushers him onto his back and moves to straddle his thighs, “It’s rare that I find you in such an agreeable mood,” the bard purrs, “And I’d be a  _ fool _ to turn down such a  _ tempting _ offer.”


End file.
